impossibility
by pelokkain
Summary: "he craves something, craves kisses and intertwined fingers and dates, warmer than she could ever possibly be; he craves romance, he craves love, but most of all, he craves impossibility."


**notes & disclaimers - **this was better in my head. hetalia doesn't belong to me. stylistic decapitalization again.

* * *

><p><strong>impossibility.<strong>

she is strange and beautiful and he isn't sure how to love her, belarus, who is like burning houses and fear, freezing cold water and the feeling of falling.

(then again, she would never let him love her)

"belarus," and her name is odd on his tongue, odd in a way that makes him want to say it over and over again. "do you want to - ahm - "

and there lithuania begins to lose his courage, as she stares at him; and in that moment she is all eyes, all spider leg lashes and half lids, staring, staring, staring.

" - ahm, ahm, do you, maybe, want to - dinner, tomorrow? with me." lithuania stutters, slurs - words mixing up in a frenzy around her. "i have reservations - at a restaurant, i mean, it's french. french food is good. have you ever tried it? it's - it's good, really - "

"i'm a married woman." belarus interrupts, eyes narrowed. "you are aware of this."

"oh, i see - my apologies - " lithuania says; rubbing the back of his head, smiling awkwardly, walking away quickly; he looks back to see if she is looking at him.

she's not there anymore, however.

* * *

><p>he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.<p>

he craves something, craves kisses and intertwined fingers and dates, warmer than she could ever possibly be; he craves romance, he craves love, but most of all, he craves impossibility.

poland tells him he's being stupid, because it's not like she's anything special, there are lots of other people who love him - and somehow, lithuania gets the feeling poland is talking about himself; perhaps it is because poland kisses him, then; lips warm and something lithuania craves, but not from him.

there aren't words. there's only _this_ and _that_, and the way poland kisses his cheeks and nose and forehead, neck and stomach and lips once more, poland, who is like candlelight and the sun, fire and ash; poland, who tries to give lithuania a romance worth remembering; poland, who kisses the scars away like nothing; poland, who is warm; poland, poland, poland, who loves him.

it's at the end, when poland finally says it.

"i love you." mumbled, against lithuania's neck, sitting behind him; almost sad and completely serious. it's poland who says it, says it except the voice isn't his own and

lithuania says nothing, only ducks his head, shaking it, no.

"yeah, i get it." poland says, like he's known all along, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and turn on the television, smiling still. lithuania hasn't visited for him for a long time and he doesn't know what's happened but poland has gone funny, in his fingers and toes and blood and laugh.

lithuania goes to sit beside him, and holds his hand for a moment; in that moment, he wonders what it'd be like to love poland, instead.

he leaves, after thirteen minutes andahalf of a romantic comedy that wasn't funny.

as he goes down the hall, he looks back, for just a second; poland looks at him, too.

* * *

><p>he kisses her; once.<p>

it is in spring, the end of spring; when there are wilting common flax flowers in her hair, wearing a dress that resembles some of poland's traditional garb vaguely, in shape and idea; he hasn't seen poland in a long time.

"you look nice." lithuania says. "flax is your national flower, right? it suits you."

". . . it's useful." belarus replies, after a pause. the silences are always uncomfortable. "you can use the plant to make dye, clothes, and various other things. russia produces much flax."

she raises her hand away from the fence, brushing her fingertips against the flowers in her hair.

"my national flower is, ahm, rue." lithuania smiles nervously. "it's been used as medicine, a long time - "

"if they're near the skin, don't the leaves cause blisters, though." belarus says, and the way she says it, he's unsure of whether it's a question.

"that's only when it's hot weather - it's still a good flower."

"i didn't say it wasn't."

there is silence for a moment; belarus's hand is back on the fence, and lithuania brushes his fingers against it. she doesn't protest when he holds it.

and then, he turns, and she's looking at him when he does; and their faces are close, and it's warm, too warm, his face going red, and then he kisses her. she is still; does not push him away, but does not encourage him; apathetic, for once. somehow, it hurts more than when she broke his fingers, than when she says 'i'm a married woman'; and yet, he keeps kissing her, lips pressed to hers. he can hear her breathe.

after a moment of this, he pulls away.

"i - i really like you." lithuania confesses, suddenly.

it's quiet again, and then belarus speaks; voice strained, as if she's trying to contain herself.

"i know."

she walks away; he watches her go.

* * *

><p>she is strange and beautiful and he isn't sure how to love her, belarus, who is like burning houses and fear, freezing cold water and the sound of violins.<p>

(then again, she would never let him love her)

"belarus," and her name is odd on his tongue, odd in a way that makes him want to say it over and over again. "do you want to - ahm - "

and there lithuania begins to lose his courage, as she stares at him; and in that moment she is all eyes, all spider leg lashes and half lids, staring, staring, staring.

" - ahm, ahm, do you, maybe, want to - dinner, tomorrow? with me." lithuania stutters, slurs - words mixing up in a frenzy around her. "i have reservations - at a restaurant, i mean, it's italian. italian food is good. have you ever tried it? it's - it's good, really - "

"i'm a married woman." belarus interrupts, eyes narrowed. "you are aware of this."

"oh, i see - my apologies - " lithuania says; rubbing the back of his head, smiling awkwardly, walking away quickly; he looks back to see if she is looking at him.

she's not there anymore, however; perhaps she was never there in the first place.


End file.
